


Second in Command

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [52]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Mugging, im bad at tagging race is just a prideful dumbass okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Race gets mugged and embarrassed about it; he never was good at swallowing his pride





	Second in Command

**Author's Note:**

> done for Desert Lily!!!! ily bb!!!

Race hadn’t been home in three days. Three days of being too ashamed to cross the bridge back to Manhattan and back to Jack; Jack with his disappointment in Race that grew everyday he didn’t show up at distribution. Three days of being too prideful to go to Spot and take up lodging in Brooklyn. Three days with no papers and no money, and he was  _ hungry _ . 

That was what was pushing him over the edge. If he kept himself busy he could forget about everyone on both sides of the bridge worrying about him. He could forget about getting mugged and having his family threatened, could even forget about the fact that he had no idea what the hell he was going to do in the long term, how long this would last.

But hunger? That wasn’t going away, and no amount of distractions could keep it from, quite literally, eating away at him. 

The only reason he hadn’t stolen anything yet is because it had been ground into him that stealing was the last resort. You did it as little as possible because once people knew you stole, then you were in trouble.

But Race woke up that morning and almost passed out as soon as he stood up, so he figured he was getting into last resort territory. 

So, he’d gone up to the carts outside Rickman’s Deli and tried to act like he wasn’t technically homeless and slowly starving to deal, and snagged some bread and an apple. Two steps later and he was being dragged by the back of his collar into an alley, kicking and screaming before he was down on the ground getting kicked over and over.

The only reason Race was able to recall any of this so clearly is that that's what he used to do when his father laid into him when he was younger. He’d think about everything that happened up until that moment, what he could have done differently, and by the time he got through his father had worn himself out.

Back then he never really figured out what he did wrong, this time he did. The outcome was the same though, and by the time the burly man who’d kicked the shit out of Race, Race liked to imagine he was Rickman himself, had backed off, Race was back in the present.

And the present  _ hurt _ .

“Fuck me.”

The words came out bitten and Race spit out blood, grimacing at the amount that splattered onto the pavement. Painfully he pushed himself up on his elbows, breathing harshly through the shooting pains in his ribs, and then up onto his knees, and then he was hauling himself to his feet.

He needed to go. With blurring vision he squinted into the street and caught a few looks from passersby, but no one from the deli. That was good, it meant he had time to get away if they decided to get a bull on him. 

Stumbling and grabbing onto the alley walls and garbage cans for support, he worked his way back from the street, heading to the next block over. He was a fucking idiot, he thought, for trying to steal anything at all at this time of day.

Looking up, he squeezed his eyes shut from the glare of midday. It felt like a hangover, which was fair because the guy had gotten a few good kicks to his head, and he needed to find somewhere to lay down. He still had no plan.

As he approached the entrance to the next block, he tried hard to remember which of the Brooklyn kids sold on this block. It might be Blue, or Bottles. Either of them would be fine because they were young and knew to keep their mouth shut if Race asked them too. If it was Spot or Silver though, he was fucked.

“Racetrack shut down due to flooding! Betters winning overturned!”

“Shit,” Race hissed, backtracking and looking blindly around the alley to find something to hide behind. That was Spot’s voice, and as beaten as he was Race really didn’t want to deal with, well, the rest of his life right that second.

“Racetrack?”

Race clawed his hands and took a deep breath, turning on his heel and trying to drop his shoulder in an attempt to look natural. His ribs protested. Not like it mattered, his face was covered in blood anyway.

“Hiya Spot, you sellin’ over here now?”

Spot ignored him completely, slack jawed at the sight of Race, and walked toward him with rushed steps before setting down his bundle of papers. “What the hell happened to ya?”

“Run in with a couple assholes, I’m fine really,” Race said weakly, holding back a wince when Spot gripped his chin to try and get a steady look at his temple, which was throbbing enough to have started bruising. 

“Where you been the last couple days, huh?” Spot asked, and Race blanked for a second. Spot never brushed off a beaten kid that fast, especially Race. He probably knew more than he was letting on.

Race forced himself to keep steady eye contact. “Around. Racetrack ain’t open, just like ya said out there.”

“‘Round where?” Spot asked, and Race felt the sudden urge to just bolt. “‘Cause Jackie keeps sending kids over, said they ain’t seen ya either.”

Race felt the ache in his ribs and head, and felt the hunger and the exhaustion weighing him down, and knew he couldn’t lie to Spot right now and get away with it anyway. He didn’t have to know the whole truth though, just enough.

“I got into some trouble, not payin’ back the right people on bets,” Race said smoothly, the lie coming easier when the other part was going to be true. “They knew I was a newsie, said they’d hurt the other kids, so I took off for a few days. Y’know, ‘til-’til I come up with the money.”

Race hated himself for stuttering on that last bit, because it didn’t make any fucking sense, and he knew Spot caught it.

Spot let his shoulders drop and he cocked his head, like he was talking to a new kid who might run on him. “How ya gettin’ that money without sellin’?”

“I-well I was gonna go back in a day or so and then-”

Barking out a tense laugh, Spot crossed his arms and looked steadily at Race. “I know you’se lyin’ about somethin’, don’t try me with that shit.”

When Race didn’t say anything for a moment, Spot grabbed him by the arm and Race let himself be pulled out of the alley and onto the street. He wasn’t going to try and sweet talk his way into sleeping on the street, and his hollow stomach was playing into that.

“And don’t think I ain’t figurin’ out what’s goin’ on with ya,” Spot said languidly, giving Race a sidelong glance as they walked. “We’se talkin’ once you’re all cleaned up.”

“Wouldn’t expect nothin’ less.”

* * *

Stuff happened so fast in Brooklyn, faster than Manhattan, Race would admit that much. Within an hour he’d gotten to Brooklyn lodging, had Silver clean up his face and wrap up his ribs, wolfed down a plate of food, and was sitting on Spot’s bed chewing on an extra slice of bread Spot had snagged for him. It almost gave you whiplash.

The door creaked open, and Race gave Spot a look when he walked in with a bottle along with the extra pillow he promised Race. “What’s that?”

“Whiskey,” Spot answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “For the pain.”

Race wasn’t complaining, and he finished off his break before reaching the bottle and unscrewing the cap as Spot changed out of his clothes and got settled on the bed. He’d already lent Race a spare undershirt and some pants; his own were pretty much unwearable at that point. 

Race took a long sip before he passed the bottle to Spot. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Spot said, and he took a gulp of his own before screwing the cap back on. “Think of it as reciprocity.”

“Huh?”

“You drink this,” Spot said, tapping the bottle while Race frowned at me, “and then you tell me why you ran off.”

Yeah, Race should have seen that one coming. He let out a puff of air before snatching the bottle back from Spot. “Fine.”

Spot smirked smugly back at him while Race took another drink. “I’m waitin’.”

The burn of the whiskey made its way down Race’s chest and he held back a grimace as he started to talk. “It really ain’t a big deal, a couple of guys said they’d go after the littles after we had a run in, and I figured I’d hide out here until they cooled down.”

“It ain’t dumb, Racer,” Spot said, leaning back with his elbows braced on the bed behind him and his legs stretched out. “I just don’t get why you ain’t being straight with me. I don’t give a shit about whatever happened, I just gotta know what to tell Jack ‘cause he sure as hell ain’t takin’ your word for shit right now.”

Race bit his lip and looked from the bottle to Spot, he wanted to lie really bad. Second in commands didn’t get mugged and robbed. Kids had that shit happen to them, if it happened to someone that high up in the chain of command, it made them a weakass, and a stupid one at that.

But Spot could sit in silence longer than Race had ever been able to, and slowly Race said, “I got mugged.”

“That’s it?”

Race clawed his hands into Spot’s sheet and kept his eyes stubbornly on the bottle of whiskey. “And robbed.”

When Spot didn’t say anything Race looked up to see the other making a face at him. “I ain’t gettin’ what’s so bad about any of it-”

“It’s embarrassing, okay?” Race snapped, viciously defensive all the sudden. “I’m one below Jack, I ain’t supposed to get my ass kicked like I’m a fuckin’ kid anymore, all right? And I really ain’t supposed to be puttin’ anyone else in danger.”

Race’s voice felt jagged in his throat, and he felt his whole body tense when Spot started  _ laughing _ . “What the fuck’s so funny?”

“You, dumbass,” Spot said through a grin, and he shoved Race’s shoulder. “You think me and Jack are havin’ a fuckin’ laugh if you get robbed? Really?”

Race stuttered weakly and Spot rolled his eyes.

“Everybody gets robbed, Race, we live in the shittiest city on earth, and no goddamn title makes you untouchable, okay?”

The tension was slowly leaving Race, starting in his jaw and making its way down. He actually felt  _ more  _ embarrassed now, after Spot’s reaction. “Yeah, okay.”

He put the bottle on the ground and swung his legs up onto the bed, looking meekly at Spot when he propped himself up to look at Race.

“What? Now you’se embarrassed? Not when I was dragging your ugly mug outta the trash?”

Race gasped exaggeratedly and sat up to get eye level with Spot. “You didn’t  _ drag  _ me anywhere, and even with my face fucked up I’se still lookin’ better than  _ you _ .”

Spot shoved his shoulder again and Race flopped down on the bed, Spot too a second later.

“Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

“See ya just admitted it.”

“I’ll admit you.”

The bickering went on for a while. The next morning Race found out he fell asleep mid comeback. Spot didn't seem all that upset.

**Author's Note:**

> im so tired and cant tell how bad this is so like,,, comment if u can???
> 
> also kudos are appreciated and ily all sm


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